zi in Rupert Street,
and make inquiries there. But he was not very hopeful. For one thing, if
Nina were desirous of concealment or of getting free away, she would not
go to a place where, as he knew, she had lodged before; for another, he
had disapproved of her living there all by herself, and Nina never
forgot even his least expression of opinion. When he asked at the
restaurant if a young lady had called there on the previous day to
engage a room, he was answered that they had no young-lady visitor of
any kind in the house; he was hardly disappointed.

But as he walked along and up Regent Street (here were the
well-remembered shops that Nina and he used to glance into as they
passed idly on, talking sometimes, sometimes silent, but very well
content in each other's society) he began to ask himself whether in
truth he ought to seek out Nina and try to intercept her flight, even if
that were yet possible. Estelle's questions were significant. What would
he do, supposing he could induce Nina to come back? At present, he
vaguely wished to restore the old situation--to have Nina again among
her friends, happy in her work at the theatre, ready to go out for a
stroll with him if the morning were fine, he wanted his old comrade, who
was always so wise and prudent and cheerful, whom he could always please
by sending her down a new song, a new waltz, an Italian illustrated
journal, or some similar little token of remembrance. But if Estelle's
theory were the true one, _that_ Nina was gone forever, never to return;
her place was vacant now, never to be refilled; and somewhere or
other--perhaps hidden in London, perhaps on her way back to her native
land--there was a woman, proud, silent, and tearless, her heart
quivering from the blow that he had unintentionally dealt. How could he
face _that_ Nina? What humble explanations and apologies could he offer?
To ask her to come back would of itself be an insult. Her wrongs were
her defence? she was sacred from intrusion, from expostulation and
entreaty.

At the theatre that evening he let the public fare as it liked, so far
as his part in the performance was concerned. He got through his duties
mechanically. The stage lacked interest; the wings were empty; the long,
glazed corridor conveyed a mute reproach. As for the new Clara, Miss
Constance did fairly well; she had not much of a voice, but she was as
bold as brass, and her "cheek" seemed to be approved by the audience. At
one poi